Date: Sun, 11 Jun 2000 21:03:48 -0400
From: Reiter Mann
Subject: "A Game of Persuasion" (b/b bond cons)
A GAME OF PERSUAUSION
by
Reiter Mann
"Ouch! That hurts!" I complained.
But Jimmy ignored my whining and continued to pull my arms higher and tighter
and tie them off so that I was standing on tiptoes. He had already spread my
legs wide apart and tied my ankles to an old mop handle to keep them that way.
Now he was finishing the job by using the clothesline tied to my wrists and
looped over the exposed ceiling beam in his basement to stretch me up on my
toes. I was beginning to think that going along with him on his "great game
idea" wasn't so smart after all.
The front flap of the soft deerskin loin-cloth swung back and forth and
tickled the side of my tensed thighs, but I had other things to worry about
now. The loin-cloth had been his idea and he had found the leather in a pile
of scraps collected by his father who was an avid hunter. All it took was a
rawhide bootlace around my waist and the strip of leather folded under my
crotch and then over the thong in front and back and-bingo!-I was Tarzan.
That was the game, actually. We had watched a Tarzan movie on television. It
was an old one, in black-and-white, and pretty corny, but Jimmy had really
liked it. Especially the part where Tarzan had been captured by the bad guys
and they had tied him up to make him tell where the golden treasure, or
something like that, was hidden. After the movie was over he had suggested
that we play a Tarzan game and, always generous, he had allowed me to be the
jungle hero.
I wasn't at all surprised to learn that I was going to spend the whole game
tied up and subjected to whatever brilliant torments popped into Jimmy's
fertile brain. We liked to play tie-up games and in most of them I would be
the one tied up and questioned or punished or ritually sacrificed or whatever
was on the day's agenda for that particular game. And the truth is that I
really liked our games. There was something about being tied up and completely
at Jimmy's not always tender mercy that I really got off on. We had been
playing these games for about three years, but this afternoon's Tarzan game
was going to break some important new ground for us. I just didn't know it at
the time.
Jimmy stood and looked at me with his hands on his hips, his usual conqueror's
pose. "Well, Tarzan," he said. "At last I have you in my power! Will you tell
me where the golden treasure is hidden and save yourself much pain?"
"No!" I said. "I'll never tell you anything!" I did my best to make an
impressive but artificial show of powerful musculature by pulling down hard on
the ropes that held my arms stretched up to the big ceiling beam. This was the
part that Jimmy really liked: when his prisoner defied him and refused to
cooperate. He came up very close to me and took my hair in his right hand
while he traced a line down my taut chest and belly with the forefinger of his
left.
"Oh, you'll tell me all right!" he said. "Eventually. It may take a while, but
we have ways to make you talk. Change your mind, and save yourself the agony
and the sweat" he demanded, hoping all the while that I wouldn't weaken and
that the game could therefore continue to the parts he liked even better than
these initial movie-dialogue joustings.
True to my role, I was stubborn and unafraid. "No! Never! I'm not afraid of
your tortures! I'll never tell!"
"Then let the torture begin!" he announced jubilantly to all assembled in the
basement dungeon, no doubt the same imaginary guards and helpers that had just
a few minutes before dragged me before him with my hands tied behind my back
and a gag stuffed in my mouth. It was these same imaginary minions that had
helped him to prepare me for the torture by spread-eagling me beneath the iron
beam.
As usual, the first course of torments was a brisk round of tickling that
covered my neck, armpits, chest, belly, and thighs. I was mildly ticklish, and
dreaded this part of these sessions, but I was not ticklish enough to spill
the beans, and so Jimmy went on to other items on the menu.
Jimmy and I were in the same grade, but different class groups. He was 7-D and
I was in 7-B. He was almost four months younger than I was. I was just three
months shy of thirteen, but despite our age difference I was the one who most
often wound up tied to the chair, or stretched on the old kitchen table that
served as a rack, or pegged out on the ground a la Apache. Actually, I liked
it that way. Ever since we had started to play these games when we were both
nine I had enjoyed the feel of Jimmy's hands on my arms as he forced them
behind me and then methodically tied me with ropes or cord or whatever he had
handy. I would always feel a high, thin tickling in my chest and a great warm
sense of deeply hypnotic pleasure.
At first the games had been mostly about catching and tying-up and escaping,
but after a while they had taken on other aspects. I can't really remember
whether these new elements were movie-inspired or if we just invented them on
our own, but it's likely that movies had a lot to do with them. I know that
after we started making the games more complicated that we had to act out
every movie scene that related to our specific predilections.
The elements of the games had similar scenarios. I would be captured by Jimmy.
He would want to know some piece of secret information which only I could
reveal. I would refuse. He would then "make" me take off my shirt (later my
jeans, too) and would tie me up in any one of a dozen or so ways and then
proceed to "torture" me until he made me talk. The game, aside from the rich
pleasures of all the steps and the ritualistic aspect they assumed, was to see
how long I could hold out against whatever exquisite torments Jimmy's
ingenuity could devise. Although we never discussed it, it soon became
apparent that the game was deeply satisfying to both of us.
Next, he brought out a roll of masking tape and tore off strips about four
inches long which he applied to various parts of my anatomy. Then, leering
into my face, he asked if I was ready to talk yet. When I refused he slowly
peeled each strip off of me. The thighs weren't bad, but the nerves of my
lower stomach began to twitch and fidget when he slowly pulled those off. The
worst were the ones over my nipples and in my armpits. Even though I was
completely hairless save for a sparse fuzz in my crotch--now mercifully
protected by the loin-cloth-the sensations caused by the tape being removed
were acute. Still, I refused to talk. "No matter" he said. "I wouldn't want
you to spoil my fun by giving up too quick, anyway!"
Then he flipped up the front of the loin-cloth and smiled with that evil,
bad-guy smile he had when we played the game and said "I bet if I took this
thing off you I'd find some good spots to put tape on!" and then he pretended
to start to untie the knot that held the bootlace around my waist and I
started to move and gyrate as best I could to keep him from getting at the
knot. But he stopped almost immediately, laughed at my consternation, and went
on with the next phase of the interrogation.
This was not the first time that Jimmy had mentioned stripping me all the way
for our games. Several times he would suggest that I just ought to take
everything off before he tied me up. He said this would make it more
"realistic," and he even showed me pages from one of his comic books where the
guys getting worked over in the dungeon were naked, except you only saw them
from the back and then only part of them. But I always said I didn't want to
and he didn't press it. I'll admit, though, that I was a little tickled by the
idea and he might have been able to talk me into it if he had kept on. The
main thing that would have held me back was knowing that often when we played
our games I would get a huge boner and I didn't think he had seen it yet. I
was afraid he might make fun of me if it happened when I had no covering at
all.
Next were the very hot washrags applied slowly and with great suspenseful
drama to my back and chest and belly and legs. He would soak them in the
wash-tub on the other side of the basement and then bring them over to where I
was suspended and with great, almost religious, ceremony apply them to
whatever part of me he was working on. This particular torture went on for
almost fifteen minutes before he introduced the next and newest addition:
birthday candles. These he lit and held very close to my skin, still damp from
the wash-clothes. He soon found that the best spots were my armpits, the sides
of my flat belly, my nipples, and my bellybutton in its nest of hard muscle.
But despite going through four of the little candles, I still wouldn't talk.
So far he seemed to be losing the game, but wasn't noticeably unhappy about
it.
Finally he brought out one of his favorite toys: a bowl of ice-cubes from the
kitchen freezer upstairs. I was extremely sensitive to cold objects and
therefore the ice-cubes were one of Jimmy's favorite "methods of persuasion"
as he called his growing bag of tricks. I tensed against my bonds as soon as I
saw the bowl of cubes and his glee was unmistakable. He asked me again if I
was ready to talk and when I refused he indulged himself in one of his
favorite little domination riffs. He said I had to choose between giving up
and more torture and that I had to tell him what my decision was.
"Well?" he asked.
"I won't talk!" I said.
"Then you want more torture?" he asked.
"I guess" I murmured.
"You have to say it" he insisted.
"OK," I gave in, "I want more torture!" And that's exactly what I got.
Jimmy worked on me with the ice-cubes for another fifteen minutes. He had a
way of applying them that got the most out of each shock and dragged it out to
what was, for me, almost unbearable prolongation. I was already working on a
pretty good sweat by the time he started with the ice, and in a few minutes I
was dripping wet from them. He applied them behind my knees, on my elbows, up
and down my backbone, on my upper inner thighs, my belly, my chest, my armpits
(a favorite spot), and anywhere else he thought might cause me discomfort.
Still I refused to talk, and began to feel a deeply rooted stubborness. I
decided that this time there would not be the moment where I would blurt out,
as was usual in our games, "OK! OK! No more! I'll talk! I'll tell you
everything! Just don't torture me anymore! I'll talk!" Not this time, I vowed
to myself. This time I win.
By the time most of Jimmy's ice-cubes had mostly melted I had been stretched
under the beam for almost an hour and my arms and legs were growing numb from
the tension. This was among the longest times we had ever played the game, and
even though neither of us was ready to quit I was coming to the end of my
ability to stand on my toes under the beam. I could feel my arms giving out
and I told Jimmy that he was going to have to untie me.
"Nah," he said, "We ain't finished yet. Just a little longer."
"No, man! I can't. C'mon, you gotta untie me now. I think my circulation is
cut off or something."
"Then you gotta talk."
"No!. I won't talk. Never. But you gotta untie me."
He thought for a minute and then seemed to have discovered a solution. "OK.
Here's what we can do. I'll untie you, but you're still my prisoner and I
still get to torture you some more. Only I'll take you someplace else and tie
you in a different way. OK? Agreed?"
"OK," I said. "I agree."
"You gotta swear you won't try to get away or anything like that."
"I swear. I'm still a prisoner. You just gotta let me down though."
He untied me and the sudden stinging burst of pain as I brought my arms down
from their extended position almost brought tears to my eyes. My legs were
also hurting pretty bad. After I had a few moments to get circulation started
again, Jimmy came up behind me and very gently took my elbows in his hands and
drew them behind my back. He had me cross my wrists and tied a few loops of
the soft, cotton clothesline around them.
"OK," he said to the imaginary guards again. "Take this prisoner to the
special torture chamber. We'll continue to work on him there." He put his
hands on my arms and shoved me gently along ahead of him up the stairs of the
basement, through the house, and then up the stairs to the second floor, and
then into his room where he took me over to his bed and shoved me down onto it
in a sitting position.
I should explain something. Jimmy's mom and dad were divorced and he lived
with his mom. His older brother lived with his dad in another town. His mom
worked at the battery plant on the second shift. This meant that we pretty
much had the run of Jimmy's house whenever I could get my parents' permisssion
to play there. We were always pretty economical with the truth about there
being other adults there and so there was usually no problem since my parents
weren't much into checking out stuff like that. That's why he could parade me
around his house half naked, soaking wet from the ice cubes, and with my hands
tied behind my back. I sat there on the edge of his bed and wondered what was
next. I didn't have very long to wait.
We had used his bed before in our games, and so I knew the drill when he told
me to sit in the middle and face the footboard. It was a big bed, a double,
with huge, heavy old oak corner posts and it was to these that he would fasten
me. I started to complain that he was tying me back into the same position I
had been subjected to in the basement, but the thought of the more comfortable
spot that the bed represented kept me quiet.
He got up on the bed and squatted behind me to untie my hands, then had me lie
back while he slowly and carefully tied each wrist to the corner posts at the
head of the bed. Then he got off the bed and went down to the foot, reached
over and took my ankles in his hands, and pulled me hard down toward him,
causing my arms to snap out to full extension. He then spread my legs wide
apart, much wider than they were spread under the beam, and tied each ankle
off to the foot-posts. I was now staked out on my back, helplessly
spread-eagled and waiting for the next phase of Jimmy's torture program. But,
come what may, I resolved that Tarzan was not going to talk.
He got back on the bed and straddled my chest, a knee on either side pushing
up into my armpits. He leaned over and started to rub my shoulders and down
across my chest. "You gonna tell me now?" he asked.
"No," I said, "I'm not."
"You know what that means? If you don't tell?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said. "I know."
"It means that I'm gonna have to torture you some more until you talk. Are you
ready for that?" he asked, taunting me now.
"Yeah," I said. "Go ahead. I'm not afraid!"
"We'll see," he said. And he got off of me and began to gather up his tools.
Only one other time had we gone this long before this, and I was buzzing with
the excitement and tension of it. I was only a little afraid, and was mostly
just tingling from the sheer fun of it. I was also very curious about what he
was going to do to me next.
He started with the little candles again. Only this time he lit them and held
them over me, pretty high up, and then let the hot wax drip onto me in
different spots. It was real hot, but the candles were high enough that it
didn't really burn. Still, I moaned and writhed around on the bed pretty good.
This was the first time he had done this and I found it pretty exciting. Also,
it was almost dark by then and he hadn't turned on any lights in his room. The
combination of the dim light and the candles, and me shiney with sweat and
ice-cube run-off made it very exciting and I could feel my dick getting hard
under the soft leather of the loin-cloth. In the hour that he had me stretched
under the beam I had had two or three seperate hard-ons and had been grateful
for the extra concealment provided by the two layers of leather the loin-cloth
provided. Now, however, lying flat on the bed and stretched out like I was,
there wasn't much I could do conceal what was happening south of the border
and I could only hope that Jimmy was so busy with his work that he wouldn't
notice.
All this time he was dripping wax onto me and asking me, over and over, was I
ready to talk yet. I kept telling him No, but he kept asking. This was part of
our ritual, this asking, and I knew that he liked it as much as I did. Somehow
it focused me on what was happening and reminded me over and over that I was
his prisoner and possession and he could do anything he wanted to me.
After he went through three or four more candles he got bored and just
squatted there beside on the bed and looked at me. Then he seemed to get an
idea and he jumped up and went over to his desk and came back with two
unsharpened yellow pencils just like we used in school. He came back and
squatted at my hips with his knees touching me. Then he did something that
caused me to suck in my breath and hold it: he flipped up the front flap of
the loin-cloth. I was still about half hard and he sort of grinned at me and
then took one pencil in each hand, like drumsticks, and started to play a tune
on the leather stretched over my cock!
"Talk!" he ordered, the pencils going tapitty-tappity-tap on my unit.
I grimaced, took a deep breath, and held it. "No!" I said. "Never!" And the
tapping increased in tempo and strength. After a minute or so I was sure that
my dick was well on its way back up to full-mast hard-on, and there was
nothing I could do about.
"This is a great torture, isn't it?" Jimmy asked, concentrating on his rhythm
and not missing a beat. I didn't answer, but held my breath in my expanded
chest and tensed my calf and thigh muscles against the ropes that held my legs
apart and stretched down to the foot of the bed. In fact, it was a great
torture, but I wasn't about to let him know that.
After about five minutes of this, during which my cock achieved its maximum
degree of hardness and began to thump and jump under the leather, Jimmy
stopped and got off the bed. He threw the pencils down and went out of his
room and down the hall toward the bathroom. When he came backhe had a towel
all bundled up under his arm and he dumped it on the bed, but I couldn't see
what was in it. He stood next to the bed and started to undress. He took off
his shoes and socks, tee shirt, jeans, and then got back up on the bed wearing
just his underpants. He straddled me again, but this time his butt was right
over my boner. I could feel the warmth of his legs against me and he wriggled
around on my hard-on a little, sending shivers of pleasure-pain through me. He
was smiling that smile again. He put both hands palm down on the tightly
bunched muscles of my lower abdomen and stroked gently in small circles.
"You gonna talk?" he asked, for the hundredth time. "Where's the golden
treasure hidden?"
I had to remind myself that the treasure was what all this was supposed to be
about. "I'll never tell you where it is, no matter what you do to me!" I said.
He took his left hand off of my belly and put it behind him where he felt
around briefly until he found my cock and then squeezed it between his thumb
and forefinger on the shaft just above my balls. I sucked my breath in again
and braced against the ropes.
"Don't!" I said. "Don't do that!" But he didn't stop. He continued to squeeze
and roll his thumb and forefinger in their grip on the base of my cock.
"You're my prisoner," he said. "I can do anything I want to to you!
Understand?" he said, emphasizing his question with a very hard final squeeze
of my dick. "I've got a great idea for a new torture!" he said, and flipped
himself off of me and into the squatting position at my hips. He reached out
and took the knot of the boot-lace that held the loin-cloth around my waist
and started to untie it, then stopped. He looked down at me and said "Last
chance. You gonna talk? Where's the treasure?"
I had no doubt that he was going to do it. I could avoid it easily by giving
up. All I had to do was to say "I'll talk!" and he would win and I would lose,
but the game would be over. It took me about five seconds to go over all this
in my mind and then, for some reason, I said "No! I'm not going to talk!"
"Great!" he said. "I was hoping you'd say that!" and in less than three
seconds he had the thong untied. Slowly, tantalizingly, he pulled the
loin-cloth away from me and as the soft, warm-feeling leather was pulled away
from my crotch my cock sprang up and bounced there in rigid suspension over my
tensed lower belly. The glans bounced and throbbed in the air just slightly
below my navel and neither of us said a word.
We were both very nervous, but also very excited. Any hopes I may have had--if
I had hopes like that--that he would relent and back off were dispelled when
he reached into his towel bundle and pulled out a clear plastic bottle of
something. He flipped the cap and held the bottle over my chest and squeezed
and a stream of very warm baby oil squirted down onto my chest and belly.
"I put it in the sink to warm up when we first came up," he said, and then
began to slowly and gently rub the sweet-smelling, warm oil onto me. He worked
my arms and shoulders and neck and chest and belly and then squirted more oil
on my thighs, but he didn't touch my cock. The massage hadn't done anything to
lessen my raging hard-on, and if anything had boosted the pressure. The oil
and his hands felt so, so good to me. He kept it up for about fifteen minutes
and I could feel myself drifting off to a place of peace and magnificent
hypnotic contentment. I raised my head and watched him work on me for a moment
and then I said "You call this a torture?" He stopped the massage for a second
and that smile came back on his face again.
He looked down at me and said, very softly, "Oh, yes! This is a torture all
right! The worst yet. You'll see." And then he reached back into his towel
bundle and came out with a piece of leather thong that looked like the mate of
the one that had held my loin-cloth in place, only shorter and it seemed to be
much softer and more supple. He held the thong at each end and said "I read
about this in a magazine I found in my brother's stuff after he went off to
school."
The feel of his fingers on my now naked balls and the base of my cock were
like white-hot electric fire but he worked quickly and soon had the thong tied
securely around the base of my dick and balls. The pressure of the string
seemed to make my boner even harder and tighter and the pleasure I felt there
began to take on the slightest tinge of pain, but a good sort of pain it
seemed.
"What the hell is that?" I asked, raising my head to try to see what he had
done to me.
"This will keep you hard for a long time," he said, "but it will make it
almost impossible for you to come." That smile again.
Come? What was he talking about? Had he flipped? We were supposed to be
playing one of our torture games and now he was talking about coming. I
couldn't figure it out. "Take it off!" I ordered as I let my head fall back on
the damp bed.
"Talk?" he asked.
"No!" I almost shouted.
"Then it stays on," he said. "And let the torture begin!"
Now the baby oil bottle was held over my crotch and the warm oil covered my
cock and balls. Jimmy climbed over me and squatted between my wide-spread
thighs, his knees touching the inside of each leg. I felt his hand close on my
oil-drenched peter and then it clinched tight and made one, two, three long,
slow strokes along the shaft and then held motionless, tight, with the top of
the fist resting against the ridge of the glans. And then with the forefinger
of his other hand he traced circle after circle firmly along the top of the
glans, around and around my slit.
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!" I arched up off the bed and bridged against the ropes that
held me to the corner posts. Never in my twelve years had I ever felt anything
nearly like what he had just done to me. And then it was over. Both hands were
gone and the almost unbearable pleasure was replaced by a sensory vacuum. I
raised my head and saw him sitting there, hands on his thighs. Smiling again.
Between my sweat and oil-varnished chest and stomach and his movie-villain
smile was my throbbing, bouncing cock, tighter and redder and bigger than I
had ever seen it.
"Was that good?" he asked.
Pretense was useless. Some plug of reserve and carefulness had burst inside
me. "Good?" I said. "Christ, it was the greatest!"
"You want some more?" he asked.
"Oh, yes!" I said. "Yes! Please!"
"Then talk!" he said. And suddenly I knew. I knew what this great, new torture
was. Everything made sense now.
"No!" I said.
"Oh," he said, "this is going to be so much fun!" and he leaned forward toward
me again and I saw the shiney flash of oil on his hands as they came toward
me. Resigned to my cruel fate, I closed my eyes and waited.
reitermann@mailandnews.com